


Tomorrow Doesn't Exist

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:49:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Eikichi knows exactly what it’s like to want that kind of attention, but he only wants it from Makoto.





	Tomorrow Doesn't Exist

**Author's Note:**

> title is from chandelier, which is prob more suitable to the tv show than the books but look

Eikichi’s suit jacket is straining at the shoulders again. It’s most likely reached its limits of what he can get tailored and it’s eight months out of season, but he’d like to be able to wear it a few ore times before it goes to a thrift store or a younger cousin or something. The arms are short, too, not short enough to be intentional and he doesn’t like that style anyway.

“Maybe it’s a sign you should stop working out so much,” says Reo. “You can take some time off, you know; it won’t kill you.”

“I’m not going to cut back on my healthy lifestyle just because of a fucking tux. This is the last charity event we’re going to for a while, anyway.”

“All the more reason. You don’t want to give yourself heart problems.”

“Exercise is good for your heart. I’m not doing steroids or shit like that.”

Reo purses his lips and narrows his eyes, as if searching for a miniature hole in Eikichi’s argument that he can grab onto and tear wide open. Eikichi crosses his arms; the jacket strains even more and the sleeves slide halfway down his wrists. Reo snorts.

“Don’t you look handsome.”

Kotarou would stick out his tongue here, but Eikichi is not Kotarou. He lowers his arms, does not pretend to fuss with the buttons, and walks in the other direction without looking back. This was a stupid idea; his parents don’t really need him here, and he could have convinced Reo and Kotarou to ditch with him and go with him to get a new tux or at least go some place where the only refreshments aren’t champagne and pastries that are all flaky frozen crust. Eikichi's about to double back and look for Reo and suggest it anyway as he passes another caterer holding out champagne flutes, but the sound of a familiar canned laugh drags away his attention.

Makoto’s laugh is not particularly distinctive; it’s crafted not to be. Charming in a close-to-innocuous way that adults eat up when Makoto’s putting on the works, which is all the fucking time. Makoto’s head is tilted back slightly, champagne flute grasped in his fingertips, hair slicked away from his face, talking with an old woman who’s the deputy head of some conglomerate or other. A little below Makoto’s usual proclivity, but maybe his mother’s forcing him. Maybe he’ll be easy to sway into doing something fun. Eikichi grabs a champagne flute; it splashes against his fingers and he grimaces.

The old woman taps the toe of one of her Louboutins on the floor, sharp but too soft to make a sound. Slick; Eikichi would bet half his sneaker collection it’s an attempt to impress and impose on Makoto, that Makoto will notice and it’ll only work somewhat.

“You flatter me,” Makoto says, as Eikichi gets closer, voice slicker than the banisters at his country house the day they get there when the maids have freshly waxed them.

Makoto thinks he’s winning, and maybe he is. The old woman takes a half-sip of her champagne. Eikichi’s got no idea how much she knows Makoto, if at all, but if you know where to look it’s easy to truly flatter Makoto, because what he wants the most is attention.

They all do, he and Reo and Kotarou and Teppei, all in their own ways. It’s a scarce resource from parents and other adults, and they all grew up with less than they desired—as they’ve grown older, they’ve grown to use it to their advantage, but that wasn’t always true. And their parents had placed that weight on them, the weight of expectation, the weight of standing out among the best-bred and best-taught, that being in their number was a birthright but certainly nothing to settle for. Makoto’s the kind of person who’d be that way no matter where he grew up or who his family was. There’s no shitty Freudian excuse for the way he’s always tried to command the attention of the group, clumsily so when they were barely out of preschool and near-perfectly now among his prep school friends.

Makoto isn’t satisfied with that, though; he craves everyone’s attention, distilled like the fine whiskey Eikichi’s father doesn't share with anyone but his closest friends, the tap of heels in toward him, bodies tilted in his direction, all toasts raised to him. Eikichi knows exactly what it’s like to want that kind of attention, but he only wants it from Makoto.

Makoto acts like he knows and just won’t give it, and maybe he does know. Maybe Eikcihi’s bled his cards well enough; for all his faults Makoto’s no fool. Eikichi steps closer.

“Excuse me,” says Makoto.

His companion nods; she waits to see Makoto walk in Eikichi’s direction before pivoting and walking away, shoes clacking against the floor like firecrackers on a loud night.

“Changed your mind about champagne?” says Makoto, indicating Eikichi’s glass.

“Nah," says Eikichi.

Makoto’s hand darts out to grab it but Eikichi’s got quick enough reflexes to evade and place it on a passing tray. The temporary prop had bought him Makoto’s attention for the moment, and even without it Makoto’s probably not going to drop him in the next few seconds.

“Is there anything you need to talk about?” says Makoto, putting on his best smile for charming adults.

Eikichi hates that smile; the one he likes is the real, sharp-toothed expression that carves up Makoto’s face, the smile of dirty victory. He wonders how much Makoto’s had to drink tonight; either way he’ll let that drop for the moment. There are other times for a lecture on health.

“Talk. Yeah,” says Eikichi, stepping a little to the right.

There’s a door a few feet away, through a few people; it leads to a hallway that’s either dark enough or that leads to at least one rarely-used men’s restroom. He doesn’t want to fucking play games with Makoto tonight, and he doesn’t want to talk. The tux is straining against his shoulders again; it’s past time to take it off.

“I’m going that way. I’m expecting a call and the reception here sucks, but you’re welcome to join me.”

“I don’t know if that’s worth the trouble,” says Makoto.

Eikichi shrugs. He knows Makoto, and how much Makoto hates wasting time. It might not pay off; Makoto’s called his bluff before. But Eikichi’s not going to drag out a conversation just for this. He wants Makoto, but he’s stubborn enough to let it lie.

The hallway is better-lit than in Eikichi’s memory, but there is a middle-aged couple idling by a potted plant, obvious as fuck. The men’s room is empty; Eikichi runs the faucet and splashes water on his face. He doesn’t look half-bad, despite what Reo says.

The restroom door opens when Eikichi’s checking his text messages; Makoto feigns a look of surprise and Eikichi almost has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“No call yet?”

“They rescheduled,” says Eikichi.

“So you’re out here for nothing,” says Makoto, turning on the faucet and splashing Eikichi’s jacket when he sticks his hands under the flow. “Pity.”

“Oh, well,” says Eikichi. “What about you? Thought you had better things to do.”

Makoto shuts off the tap forcefully and turns to give Eikichi a scrutinizing glare.

“I’d better not be your second choice,” says Eikichi.

“Who says you were even my choice at all, stupid?” says Makoto.

He makes a move toward the door, and then at the last second spins on the toe of one leather-soled Prada loafer and grabs Eikichi by his collar to force him down into a kiss. He’s all tongue and teeth, but that’s Makoto. Eikichi doesn’t mind one bit.


End file.
